When You're Older
by Jessa L'Rynn
Summary: The story of a girl, and the men she meets as she grows into a woman. Mate to How He Loved Her.
1. Three

_The stories that follow are a paired. The opposite story is called How He Loved Her and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously._

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**Three: The One Who Cried**

Rose Tyler was a tiny little thing, too small for her age at almost four, but already possessed of an assertive personality that often set adults giggling behind their hands at her, even as they scolded her for her audacious behavior. So when her mother, Jackie, ignored her at the play park for almost ten minutes (though to her toddler mind, it was more like ten years), she set off at a brisk but infant trot for the sandbox by herself.

As she approached, she was surprised to see a very tall, very messy looking man crumpled on the nearby bench, sobbing bitterly. She looked longingly at the sandbox, then over her shoulder for her mother, and finally at the man, before chewing her lip, crawling up onto the bench beside him, and taking his hand. "What hurt?" she asked, as best as she could. She didn't have much of a vocabulary yet, after all.

The man nearly jumped out of his seat, snatched his hand away from hers, and looked down at her with eyes wide and wondering. "But... how... why... no no no no no no no."

"Sorry? Is bad?"

"No," he said, then slumped with his head in his hands. "Yes."

"I kiss it better?"

He looked at her now, his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes almost as wide as his mouth.

"You funny," she said with a giggle, then realized that his expression had taken a turn for the worse. "I sorry, I not laugh."

He looked around slowly, then turned back to her finally and winked. "You laugh all you want, Rose Tyler," he said. "Laugh and cry and sing and dance and be brilliant."

"We..." she struggled with some way to ask him if he was a stranger, since she wasn't supposed to talk to those. Of course, he did know her name and that suggested that they had been introduced at some time. "You friend?" finally seemed to work.

"Oh yes, little one," he said. "The very best of friends, I promise you. Where's your mum?"

"Her talking to Robbie. Mummy not listen to me!" she told him indignantly.

"She's good for that, yeah," he agreed. "Well, if it's just the two of us, what would you like to do?"

"Sandbox!" she said.

The man looked at his rumpled blue suit, shrugged, and shucked his jacket. Then he took her hand and led her over to the box. Jackie came over the hill, apparently saw her having fun with her friend, and turned back to her conversation. Rose pouted for a moment, then sat happily with the man and made a brilliant sandcastle, with tall towers and swirls. He pulled something from his jacket pocket and set it inside the castle entrance he'd made for them. All at once, the castle trembled a little, then burst into brilliant, sparkling light.

"It soooo pretty," she told him excitedly. "Thank you!"

"Thank you," he replied solemnly. His face fell. "It'll be gone soon, though, Rose. Nothing lasts forever."

"I know. Ok, though. Get new, yeah?"

"Not as good as the original, though. You'll be out here tomorrow building sand castles with Mickey. They'll not be as good, will they?"

"I not play with Mickey. He cries!"

"I'd try to encourage you, but it won't do any good. Besides, I was crying, wasn't I?"

"Yes." She thought about it, and couldn't figure out how to say that Mickey cried because he didn't want to do what she told him to, even though it would make the castle better, and then cried again when it fell down because he hadn't listened, and then said mean things to her and cried some more when she got mad. "That differnt, you hurt."

"Yes," he admitted, and it sounded almost as if it had hurt him to say even that.

"Why?" she asked, wanting to help.

"Because I lost someone... I..." He started crying again, so she climbed into his lap and held his hand and brushed the tears off his face as they fell in a relative flood.

"I sorry. It not better, then?"

"Not for a long, long time, no."

"Oh." She sat with him and told him a story her nan had told her when she cried once, about a cat with nine lives that always came back, even if you didn't think it would. She messed up the words quite a bit, and forgot part of it, but she knew he understood, she could just tell.

"You'd better go back to your mum, now," he said quietly. "She'll get worried."

"I forgot."

"I know." He laughed, even if he still sounded a little sad, and brushed the sand from her cheek. "That can happen with me around."

"We play again soon?"

"When you're older, Rose," he promised. "You won't see me for a long time, but when you're older, we'll see everything."

"Ok, I wait." Then she got up and got ready to go back up the hill to her mum. Instead, she tripped over the edge of the sandbox and landed, with a thud, on the ground. More surprised then hurt, she let out a shocked little wail.

Then, he was there, picking her up, holding her tightly, brushing her off tenderly to see if she had broken anything. "Are you ok, Rose? Are you hurt?"

"I fine," she said, though her knee did sting a bit where it had hit the edge of the box. "Owie," she added, as his hand brushed her knee.

"Let me see," he said, and sat with her back down on the bench. "Yes, that'll sting a bit." He rifled through his pockets until he found a pink sticking plaster and a bit of something that looked like it might sting a lot.

He rubbed it over her knee to clean it, but she was surprised that it didn't hurt after all. Then he applied the sticking plaster with deft hands and smiled at her. "All better?"

"No," she informed him indignantly. "You gots to kiss it, remember?"

"Doctors don't do that," he said. Nevertheless, he kissed his hand and then tapped her knee with it. "Better now?"

"I guess. I have to go?"

"Yes, Rose," he said. "I'm sorry. It's time, though. Your mum will come for you shortly. I just... Rose Tyler, I love you. I love you so much. Please, please, please take care of yourself, now and forever. Promise me."

Baffled by his strange words, but willing to help him if she could, she nodded. "Promise. Love you, too, Doctor," she added, because it made sense at that moment.

"Oh, you precious little thing." And he cuddled her close and cried some more, cold wet tears dripping into her hair. He gave good cuddles and smelled nice, so she was happy, even if she was getting cried on.

Then, he drew back and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Go on, little one. You won't remember me, but try to remember some day when it's important that I love you forever."

"Bye, Doctor," she said and waved at him, scrambling up the hill, careful of her knee. Then the air went funny and he was gone. At the top of the hill, she found Jackie racing toward her.

"Rose, what happened, I heard you cry. And who were you talking to earlier?"

"My friend," she said.

"I didn't see anybody," Jackie said.

"He gone now," she said. Then, she pointed to her bandage. "The Doctor gimme a plaster. It pretty."

"Yes, it is," Jackie agreed. She could only assume that Rose had met a father and son down there, and maybe Jackie hadn't noticed them because she'd been too intent on Rose. "Don't wander off again, young lady. Someone will run off with you!"

"When I older," Rose said, firmly, much to her mother's baffled amusement. "Not 'til then, k?"

"Ok, Rose. Just play up here where I can see you."

"Love you, mummy."

"Love you too, Sweetheart."


	2. Four

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, as Russell T Davies has not yet hired me. I'd move to London, I really, really will, Mr. Davies!_

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**Four: The One Who Found Her**

When she was four years old, a very nice soldier with silver blue eyes and a tough looking jacket walked her home. She had gotten separated from her mother during something weird happening, and he was telling her off the whole time, saying not to let go of people's hands when they were supposed to be keeping you safe. She held his hand, which was large and nice, if slightly cold. She still thought their fingers fit well together.

He was wonderful, she could tell, because he had known right where she was and helped her exactly when she needed it. He had been so busy the first time she saw him, so she knew he was special. Out of the entire crowd of soldiers and strange people and regular people he had been managing, he had come for her, one little lost girl.

He took her straight to her door and was about to ring the door bell when she stopped him. "Can we get married some day?" she asked him, wide-eyed and happy at the prospect. After all, people were supposed to get married if they loved each other (Mummy said so when she met Mr. Chuck) and she loved this man very much at that moment.

"Ask me again when you're older," he suggested, his eyes on hers all gentle and nice. Then he let go her hand and rang the bell, then darted off down the staircase at a dead run.

"Rose!" Mum shrieked when she opened the door. "Rose, oh thank God, Sweetheart, I thought I'd lost you." And Mum dragged her into a tight hug and started crying.

"I'm here, Mummy, I'm ok," she said, patting her mother on the head softly.

"I was about to call the police. Did one of them bring you back?"

"No, Mum, it was one of the soldiers."

"Oh," said Mum, "and he didn't even stay to let me say thank you."

"Maybe 'cuz you'd slap him," Rose said, quite sensibly. "You do that a lot."

Mum, too relieved to argue, just laughed at her daughter. "How did you know he was a soldier, Sweetheart?"

"He was with all the other soldiers and he had a haircut like theirs, and they were all doing what he told them to do. He was nice. I'm going to marry him, he said I could if I ask again when I'm older."

"Of course you can," said Mum, and bundled her off to the kitchen for cocoa and biscuits.

Rose, of course, too excited about the idea of her upcoming wedding, forgot to mention that she hadn't even needed to show the man where she lived.


	3. Seven

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, as Russell T Davies has not yet hired me. I really want that job._**

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Seven: The One Who Told Her Stories 

When she was seven, they had a substitute teacher at school for several weeks while their regular teacher handled something personal. The substitute had seemed very scary at first, because he had a very funny accent and was so much older than their regular teacher. He also dressed oddly, in a soft beige jacket with funny trousers and a sweater vest covered in question marks. However, Rose and several of the other children warmed right up to him because he was very entertaining and nice.

He stayed with her after school for a whole week because her mum was working late at her second job and no one wanted her at home alone. He spent most of those afternoons reading to her from a book about strange lands and the odd people who inhabited them. He even made sound effects, chirping like birds, whispering like the wind, filling his stories with noise that made them real. On the last day, Rose got a look at the book.

"It's blank," she said indignantly. "Did you make all those stories up?"

"Yes and no," he replied. "You can't always believe everything you see, Rose Tyler. Some things are like… magic. They're there but you can't see them unless you know what to look for."

"Oh," she said, and believed him, because he was so kind and wise and good to her. "I like magic. And I love your stories. Can you show me some magic?"

He pulled a coin and a few handkerchiefs from her ear. "No, not really," he said, rolling the r elegantly and handing her the items as he produced them. "I'm not that much of a magician."

She giggled. "I think you are. How else would your stories be so good?"

And he laughed happily at her. "My stories are good because they're real."

"Can I go there some day?"

"When you're older," he promised. "Come with me then. Your mother needs you now."

"Yes, she does," Rose agreed. "Sing me a song?"

And he did. It was a strange, beautiful song and she couldn't understand the words, and she might have fallen asleep in the middle of it, because her mum was suddenly there, outside the door, waiting on her. "Will I see you again?" she asked him, because she knew her teacher would be back on Monday.

"Not for a long time," he said. "And you'll be older and I'll be different."

"I love you, Doctor Smith," she told him, innocently.

"Thank you, Rose," he said, and sent her home.


	4. Nine

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, as Russell T Davies has not yet hired me. I really want that job. Please note that these will get longer as Rose gets older._**

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Nine: The One She Dreamed Up 

The man who had, apparently, picked her up off the floor, was small and dark haired and, from all appearances, quite the little vagabond. Rose tried to say something logical, or even vaguely appreciative like "thank you" but what came out was "What's with the fur coat?" She was lying with a rolled up gym mat under her feet and something folded behind her head, and the little man knelt beside her, watching her face with kind, inquisitive blue eyes.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said, his voice sounding rather stern. "But what I would say is this: What precisely are you doing unconscious on this floor in the middle of the night, young lady?"

"Dying," she said hoarsely as she felt the most uncomfortable throbbing in the back of her head and put her hand to it. It felt somewhat wet and sticky. She looked at the little man in shock and pulled her hand away to look at it.

"You're not dying," he scoffed gently, then leaned over to look at her. "I've already cleaned it," he assured her as she blinked at her damp but not bloody hand. "And quite the nasty little cut it was, too. You bleed most profusely from the head, you know."

"Am I..." she started, but couldn't think how to phrase it. "Is this..." She sighed, feeling quite light-headed and dizzy. "Do you have some aspirin?"

"Great heavens, no," he said, looking thoroughly shocked at the suggestion. "Never touch the stuff. It's dangerous, you know."

"No, I didn't," she said sensibly. "My mum gives it me all the time."

"Well, then, I imagine it's safe enough for you. I forget. Have a jelly baby," he added, holding out a small white paper bag. "They're not better for you, of course, but you're already better than you were when I found you, so that's something."

"What happened?" she asked, vaguely, rummaging through the bag for an orange one, her current favorite.

"Well, I certainly didn't knock you unconscious. I wasn't even here when it happened." He looked mortally yet adorably offended at that statement. Rose found herself fighting the urge to giggle. Not that she didn't want to, just that he was very nice and didn't deserve to be giggled at, and also, it made her head hurt tremendously.

"How old are you?" he demanded. "Where are your parents?"

"Nine. I'm nine." She ran a hand over her face, trying to shut out the light which was exploding inside her skull. "M'dad's dead," she said, tiredly. "Mum's at home. I snuck out."

"Ah, a little run-away. Well, I've met more than my share of those. And how did you come to be knocked out on the floor?"

"I was practicing."

"Being unconscious?" he exclaimed. "Why should anyone want to practice that?"

Now she did giggle, until she ended up groaning from the sharp increase of throbbing in her head and had to dash away tears from her eyes. "I was trying to practice my new move. I fell."

"You should have had supervision or something, child." He peered into her eyes. "Don't go to sleep, now, you've got a concussion," he added in a softer, kinder tone.

She frowned. That was bad, wasn't it? "Oh no, I won't be able to compete!" she exclaimed, frightened as she finally put the realization together. Her brain was moving exceptionally slowly right now.

"That won't be a problem," he said. "There won't be any competition here, I'm afraid. It'll have to be postponed."

"Why?" she asked, utterly confused as to how she should feel.

"The building's infested. It'll have to be dealt with and I'm afraid it won't be ready tomorrow. You'll have time to get better. You like competing, then?"

"Not really." She got the idea, somehow, that he was trying to keep her occupied any way he could, and asking her about herself probably seemed the easiest way to keep her awake. Still, she was curious what he was doing here, and he was probably far more interesting than she was, wearing that enormous fur coat in this weather. He also, for some reason, reminded her of someone, but she couldn't place it. "Are you here about this infestation thingee?"

"I am now," he said. "It's my job."

"Oh." She smiled gamely up at him. "I'm glad you came to work so early, then." She reached out and took his hand, just to hold it, just to let him know how grateful she really was.

His image swam before her wobbly eyes, replacing his slightly silly face with the sad, tired face of a man with gorgeous, devastated eyes and large ears, then the beautiful, big-eyed face of a man who looked so lost behind his enormous grin. This image gave way to more faces, some old, some young, some lovely, some plain, and one, very young and almost innocent and so nearly divine she knew she could have cheerfully followed that face into hell itself.

"Oh dear, oh dear, dear, dear!" the man exclaimed by her side. "Stay with me, don't do that," he said. "What's your name, little girl. Tell me your name!"

"Rose," she said, feeling so very far away. "Rose Tyler."

"Rose Tyler," he repeated, sounding quite frantic. Then, the voice went as wobbly as his face and she heard an entire chorus of voices, all of them saying "Rose!" in some way, all of them strange and familiar and frightening and wonderful.

"Oh, we can't have that, now," said the voice from her side. "Should have known, really, should have known. Ah ha!"

Something funny, a strange smell, wafted up from beneath her nose. "There, that's better," he said as she coughed and sputtered.

"What was that?" she choked out.

He looked sheepish and alarmed and excited all at once. He had such a fascinating, animated face, it was easy for him to pull all those expressions and more into one single glance. "I can't tell you now, Rose. Maybe when you're older, I'm sure you'll understand then."

"I meant the stuff, I guess," she replied, inhaling deeply. "I feel better."

"Yes, I suppose so. Just smelling salts. Nothing to worry about." He looked a little shifty, but after everything he had done for her, she felt no need to distrust him. Besides, she knew him, had always known him, would always know him. No harm would ever come to her as long as he was around.

"Thanks, Doctor," she said, vaguely.

He started. "You're welcome, Rose," he said, finally.

Then, all at once, he looked away sharply. "Uh oh," he breathed. "I think one of us, at least, is about to be in trouble."

"You'd better go," she whispered back, because she could hear her mother, screeching for her from the lobby.

"Take care, Rose. Until we meet again?"

"Sure." She felt all fuzzy and drifting. "Love you, Doctor," she mumbled.

He smiled, waved cheerily from the edge of her vision, and then vanished.

In the morning, when Rose woke in hospital, she was almost completely convinced it was all a dream, even though the competition did indeed close down and have to be postponed.

Her frantic mother, completely alarmed at what Rose had done, told her that this was it, no more Gymnastics competitions for her, after this one. Rose had agreed, not at all as upset as she should be, really. No one, not even Jackie, had asked her the hard questions, as to how she had come to be so well taken care of for a girl who had fallen and busted her head open. For that she was relieved, since she almost didn't even believe the answer herself.


	5. Eleven

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, as I am still hoping for getting RTD to hire me for Christmas. I really want that job. Please note that these will get longer as Rose gets older._**

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**Eleven: The One Who Asked Questions**

"Why hello there, young lady," said a friendly voice off to her left. "I wonder if you could help me; I seem to be lost."

Rose, at first thrilled to hear the voice of another person, was crushed when she understood his words. She had been very brave and very determined for the last hour or so, but enough was enough and she couldn't stand it one more minute. She sank to her knees, threw her hands over her head, and broke down, at last, into sobs.

The man came up to her, bent his knees to get a good look at her and touched her shoulder comfortingly. She didn't know him, although she'd noted vaguely that he was oddly dressed, but right now, he seemed to be a miracle. After all, he was an adult. Even if he was lost, too, he had a better chance of getting them out of this. She threw herself into his arms, clutching at his hand and trying to explain through wracking sobs.

"Hush now, child. It's quite all right, you're safe, no one's hurt." He spoke in a quiet, comforting tone, patiently lulling her from her fear and her anguish. "You'll be all right, we'll get you back where you belong."

"And then, Shireen said I only got to come because her step-mum felt sorry for me, and I said I didn't want to come anyway, and she said..."

"My goodness. You could talk for England, couldn't you?"

She stopped and blinked up at him, brushing tears out of her face, surprised at his frankness. "Probably," she agreed. "Why not?"

He ran a hand up to straighten his rumpled gray hair and "Well, I think I understood that you had a fight with your friend, and came in here to get away from her? Yes? And then you got lost, I suppose?"

"Well, duh," she said indignantly. "I'm not going to cry for stupid things Shireen said. We fight all the time, and she didn't mean most of it, I know she didn't." She chewed her lip, not wanting to confess that she didn't know for sure if Shireen had meant any of it, but she wasn't willing to lose her best friend, even if she was mad at her.

"I see," he said. "So I think now it would be best if we got you back so that you girls can say you're sorry, don't you?" He held out a hand, and tilted his head as if to listen for something.

Rose bounded to her feet and took his hand, which seemed to surprise him. Apparently, he'd only been holding it out for quiet, and she'd misunderstood. She didn't drop it, though. Being lost in the woods was better with two. "I'm Rose," she told him, but wasn't sure what to say beyond that. She fell silent, instead, watching him.

"That way," he said after a moment, and pointed with two fingers off to their left. "I think I can hear water. It's always best to find water if you're lost, my dear girl. Water leads to places, you see."

"Oh," she said, astonished she hadn't thought of that. There had been a little stream running on the other side of the camp ground. Maybe it was the same stream and it would lead them right back where they needed to go.

They walked hand in hand for some distance, and she couldn't help but notice his elegant, if slightly damaged, suit and very fine shoes. She was reminded of James Bond, for some reason and, although this man was older, he seemed strong and lean and somewhat dangerous, though of course she was perfectly safe with him. "Are you a spy?" she asked, excited at the thought. That would explain how he had ended up in the woods, slightly ruffled. Some other spies had caught him, but he had escaped! She was sure of it.

He laughed, but not unkindly. "Just call me Doctor Bond," he said, with an animated grin. "You're a clever little girl, aren't you?"

"No, not really," she said, sadly. "I'm not much good at maths or chemistry or anything, really. Except gymnastics, I'm good at that."

"I don't believe you," he said. "Well, I believe you're good at gymnastics, but how many girls would have been clever enough to work out the real truth about their friends, now? I'm sure you're a very bright young lady when you put your mind to it."

"But that's not clever. That's just..." She couldn't think of the right word, if she had ever known it, so she settled for something that made sense. "That's people, you know. The way they are."

"Very well, let me show you," he said. "I shall ask you a question I cannot answer. Don't worry, my dear, it's about people, you might be able to figure it out, but I warn you, it's stumped experts. Let's say you had done something very unusual at school."

"What, like singing in class?" she asked, with a wrinkled nose. She'd gotten in trouble for that at least twice the week before holidays.

"That's fine. Let's say you've taken up singing in class. You enjoy it, and you don't want to stop, even though you've been warned not to do. Now, your friends and your teachers have finally become quite tired of it, so they send you off some place. They don't want you to be at the school any more because you're singing all the time."

"I would stop, most of the time, if it bothered them, I guess. Unless I really couldn't. Sometimes I get really good songs stuck in my head!"

"Exactly," he said. "So my question is this. Why have they sent you away and what should you do about it?"

"Can I sing in the new place?"

"Frequently. But not the same way. Let's say there's no music in the new place."

"So you have to sing a... ah... ahca..."

"A capella. Yes. And without even a pitch pipe to help you get on key."

She sighed and, running a hand through her hair, decided to sit down on a nearby fallen tree trunk. Her feet were tired, going to fall off, in fact. She scrambled onto it - or tried to, but couldn't quite make it. To her enormous relief, he lifted her to help her the rest of the way, then sat down beside her, gesturing her to continue.

"Well, if I can sing in the new place, I'd say they sent me somewhere where I could do what I wanted. They're worried about me, and I'm making them unhappy by singing in front of them all the time. So this way, they know they've sent me some place where I can do lots of singing, and I know they meant well. None of us would be very happy, because we'd miss each other, but I was singing all the time and driving them barmy, so they couldn't keep me at the school. And if I couldn't stop singing, it'd be best for me not to be somewhere that they didn't want people to sing, even if they did have better music."

The look he gave her was strange and compelling, as if what she said was actually interesting and, indeed, quite a revelation. She was quite used to no one understanding or even listening to her observations about people, so she was nervous to find an adult who was obviously quite posh and brilliant and stuff watching her with such obvious attention. "Sorry," she said, and chewed on her lip. "Wasn't that the right answer?"

"That's a very good answer," he said. "One I hadn't considered, actually. Do go on, my dear. This is fascinating."

"Well, once I got to the new place, I'd have to find ways to make music anyway. Maybe not as fancy as before, maybe little things, like making bells or something. And I'd find people to sing with so I'd have an easier time knowing if I was on key and stuff. And I'd try to get on with them and get to know them, even if I did miss my old friends, because it's hardly their fault, the new people's I mean. And I'd teach people to sing my songs and try to learn theirs, so that we could sing together."

He laughed. "That's brilliant, my dear, positively inspired. And I have one more question. What do you say to your old friends and your old teachers when they want you to, I don't know, sing for them in church or some such?"

She made a face. Church was boring most of the time, and it didn't seem quite right for people who told you not to sing to ask you to sing for them just because they thought they'd found some place more appropriate. So she told him this, but then she thought about it some more while she was talking.

"Of course, it might be their way of trying to help, a little. Make me feel a little better, to let me know that they still like me, even if they can't have me around. And to give me a chance to have some proper music once in awhile if not always. I dunno, I'd probably still be mad at them, but I'd sing anyway, and that'd make me feel better. I guess I'd probably be glad I got the chance. And someday, maybe we can all get together and get some proper music for my new place. Helping them out might help them understand how bad it is. Besides, I'd have new songs to teach my new friends, I think, because there's always some new song, or one I forgot about, in church."

He looked at her thoughtfully for several moments and then stood up, lifting her down from the log. "We'd best be going, I think. It's getting late. But, while we walk, why don't I teach you a new song, since we're new friends."

The song he taught her was quite old, originally a poem, he said. He said her name brought the first line to mind, and she agreed that it made sense. "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose," sounded like a perfect song when he sang it in his gorgeous voice, but she was surprised to find that adding her voice to it sounded quite pretty and right, somehow.

"I used to sing that song with my wife," he told her, and she thought he looked both surprised and sad.

She asked him where his wife was, more than a little astounded that any one could ever leave a man like this to get into danger on his own.

His reply led her to think that she'd died. Her heart hurt for him, he looked so alone and lost all of the sudden.

To change the subject, she offered to teach him the song they had learned in school at the end of last term. It was a pretty song, about a girl who had lost her love, but knew she would find him again some day. He sang with her all the way through it the second time, and she felt an eerie sort of feeling, not quite deja vu, but more as if she would do it again.

He tried to teach her something more complicated that he knew, but it was hard and not even English and they both laughed as she messed up the lyrics rather badly.

When they heard Shireen's dad calling through the trees, she felt relieved and sad at the same time. She was so grateful to be found before the sun went down, but she had enjoyed the hour or two she had spent with Doctor Bond, and knew, some how, that he would have to go now. "You did it!" she told him as the excitement of her relief rolled over her, and she hugged him round the waist to emphasize how happy she was. She tried to get him to come with her - it was worth taking any kind of chance just to spend more time with him.

He shook his head and told her to go on, explaining that he had to get back to his friends, somehow making it seem as if their earlier conversation was the reason for this.

"Don't worry, we'll see each other again. When you're older, you'll understand. Clever as you are, I'm sure it will all make sense to you." He looked into her eyes, his bright blue ones kind and piercing and so very haunted. It made her heart break to see him hurting like that, but he thanked her for the talk.

"But all I did was get lost," she said, "and you found me."

His next words made her want to trail along after him for the rest of her life. "But you found me, too," he said, and sent her on her way.

She got almost three steps before she turned around and flung herself back into his arms, taking one chance to kiss his cheek and tell him how much she loved him for what he had done for her. Then she charged back into the woods again, toward the frantic voices calling out her name.

She found Shireen and her parents at the edge of the wood, calling her frantically. They hadn't missed her long - they'd thought she was with others in their group for awhile, or sleeping. But they had still missed her terribly the second they realized they had no idea where she was.

She threw herself at Shireen, and the two of them hugged each other and cried and apologized profusely for the fight earlier.

Later that evening, Rose taught a wide eyed Shireen her new song. "Where'd you learn that?" Shireen wanted to know.

"From the spy who found me," she said and, swearing Shireen to absolute secrecy (cross her heart and hope to die), she told her all about the strange Doctor Bond and how he had asked her such hard questions and then listened to her answers as if they were important.

"And I'm pretty sure I'll meet him again," she told Shireen happily.

In the darkness, Shireen hugged her excitedly. "I hope you do," she said sincerely.


	6. Twelve

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, but all I want for Christmas is a job from RTD. This is the famous Christmas episode, but there'll be two more updates by New Year's._

_As a special request, for a new story I am working on, I need to know any and every question any of you have ever had about Doctor Who. So lay them on me!_

* * *

**Twelve: The One She Got for Christmas**

When she was twelve, Rose had agreed to play an elf on Saturdays at the store. It was the closest to Christmas she was going to get this year, because her mum hadn't made enough money at her hair-cutting business and had had to take a second job to pay the bills, and besides, Mum was going to have to work on Christmas Day. Rose's school would earn money for the volunteers and they would all get a gift certificate, so Rose was excited enough. This way, she could at least get her mum a present.

This was the last weekend she had to work and Rose was surprised to find they had a new Father Christmas. He was a very strange one, with a mop of curly hair all painted white, a long, long white beard that looked really real, and very, very blue eyes that sparkled almost exactly the way Father Christmas's should. For some reason, he wore an enormous, tacky scarf on the outside of his suit. "You don't look much like Father Christmas with that scarf," she said.

He smiled at her and ruffled her hair. "You don't look much like an elf with those ears," he replied in a booming, boisterous voice. "More like a pixie, really. And why shouldn't Father Christmas wear a scarf? It's rather cold, after all, he should bundle up!" He pulled a small white bag from inside his coat and offered it to her. "Jelly baby?"

She nodded and accepted one, then grinned up at him as she bit the red, sugary head off.

"What's your name, little elf?"

"Rose Tyler," she replied. "And you're very nice, but I still don't think you're a proper Father Christmas."

"Well, Rose Tyler, what should I do to be a proper Father Christmas?"

So she helped him all through the day, even joining him for their lunch break. He was kind and gentle and had a way with children, but every time he held one, his dark blue eyes looked so very sad. She held his hand when they walked through the store after collecting her gift certificate and everyone remarked on how adorable they looked, the tall giant and the tiny girl.

When the line at the end of the day was very long, she told her friends, all the other elves, to call their parents and go home and she would stay. And they left with cries of "Happy Christmas!" on their lips and she and the Father Christmas and the photographer stayed until the last child in the queue had confessed to wanting a pony.

Then, he pulled Rose up into his lap. "And what do you want for Christmas, Miss Tyler?" he asked.

"I just wanted to get a present for my mum," she said. "See, she works very hard to take care of me and most of the time I don't even remember to say thank you."

"Well, that's what your gift certificate is for. You had enough to get that present you picked out for her, didn't you?"

"Only just. I had to add some of my pocket money, but I got it and they said they'd wrap it up all pretty and everything by the time I go pick it up."

"That's very nice of you. But what about you? If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?"

"Stars!" she told him, giggling with mischief and cuddling into his scarf without even thinking about it.

He laughed merrily. "When you're older, Rose Tyler, we'll get you all the stars you can stand. But how about now?"

She paused. It wouldn't matter. He wasn't really Father Christmas, after all. He was one of the nicest, best people she ever met, though, so she trusted him. "I'd like to have a bicycle. A shiny red one. Even Mickey's got a bicycle and he's too big a baby to ride it without training wheels. But we can't afford one, so I have to walk, and all the kids pick on me…" she started crying without meaning to do. It was, after all, a very long day and she was very young and very tired.

He held her while she cried and dried her tears with his handkerchief and a jelly baby or two. After she had calmed down, he stood up and lifted her so he could look her in the eye, his blue ones shining so brightly with kindness and mischief into her watery brown ones. "So a red bicycle, with stars and no training wheels," he said. "Let's see what we can do."

He took her out to get the present and rode with her on the bus all the way to Powell Estate, holding her hand and letting her rest her sleepy head on his shoulder. Just before she got off, she said, "I love you, Father Christmas," and kissed him on the cheek. He nodded and ruffled her hair and shooed her on her way.

As she got off the bus, she found a twenty pound note on the side walk. The heavily wrapped up man who she was sure had dropped it categorically denied it, but that's another story.

Her mother was able to make them a lovely Christmas dinner with the money, which they had on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Morning, her mother got up to go to work and unwrapped the present Rose had gotten her. She was still teary-eyed so she didn't notice the beribboned bicycle chained to the guard rail until she almost tripped on it. Checking the tag, it read "To Miss Rose Tyler" and had a small heart, "From Father Christmas", and a decorative little question mark.

"Rose!" she called, completely astounded, and tears starting in her eyes again. "Come and see!"

"Oh he did it, he did it!" Rose shouted in over-flowing joy. "He really is Father Christmas!"


	7. Fourteen

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, as I did not get my new writing job for Christmas. _

_As a special request, for a new story I am working on, I need to know any and every question any of you have ever had about Doctor Who. So lay them on me!_

* * *

**Fourteen: The Lonely One**

When she was fourteen, Rose was sitting down the chip shop, waiting for her friends Shireen and Mickey to meet her. Her mother was working from the house now, or out with her new boyfriend, so she was allowed out on her own all of the time. Mickey, however, had to get his gran to let him, and Shireen had as many as two parents and two step parents to get through on any given day so it might take her awhile.

At the next table, a fussy looking old gentleman with shoulder length white hair and extremely old clothes was sitting, apparently waiting for someone, because he would look up occasionally, check every patron of the shop and then go back to what he was doing, which appeared to be writing in some small, leather-bound book. She didn't know why, but Rose couldn't take her eyes off of him. He seemed, for some reason, to be almost infinitely sad and lonely.

Rose made up her mind, ordered some chips and two fizzy drinks and took them over to sit at the table across from the old man. He looked at her with ill-disguised surprise and no little irritation and closed his book. "What can I do for you today, hmm?" he questioned, making it clear in the way he said that single sentence that he had no intention of doing anything at all for her, ever.

She smiled her best smile. "Have a chip," she offered, knowing that people often tried to restrict the diet of old people and that he'd probably be unable to resist. She put the second drink down in front of him and tilted her head to watch him consider.

After a moment, he seemed to resign himself and had a chip, daintily tucking a fork into one and raising it to his lips, where he bit into it with delicate curiosity. His eyes widened with pleasant surprise and he helped himself to three more in rapid succession. "Good, aren't they?"

"They are," he agreed solemnly. "And positively ghastly for your cardiovascular system, I dare say. What is your name, young woman?"

"I'm Rose Tyler," she said, and took a long pull on her drink. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" he asked, haughtily indignant. "Why? Who said anything was wrong, hmm?"

"Anybody can look at you and tell," she said, feeling rather amused by his annoyance.

"You are a very impertinent child, aren't you, Rose Tyler," he said, and suddenly his pale blue eyes were twinkling at her.

She smirked, her tongue poking through her teeth. "That's what they tell me." She had a chip and gestured at the drink. "Brought that for you. So, do you want to talk?"

He helped himself to another chip. "My grand daughter is getting married," he said at last. "And I'll miss her."

"I bet," she said sympathetically, and took his hand in concern, to comfort. He seemed to want to pull away for a moment, but then his hand tightened on hers, fitting just so, and surprisingly strong for his age. For herself, she felt content with his cool fingers against hers, some strange emotion shining in his pale, bright eyes. "S'hard when your family gets on with their lives, innit? And you kinda don't know if you're more glad they're happy or hoping they won't be happy because then they'll come back to you."

"You're quite young to be so wise, aren't you, hmm?"

"Maybe," she agreed thoughtfully. "But it's like that with my mum. She's dating again seriously after all this time since my dad died and I dunno what to think, you know?" She took a pull from her drink and ate a few more chips while the old gentleman considered her with strange, careful eyes.

"Someday, though, you'll return the favor," he replied, "and she won't know what to make of it then. We tend to hold our family members to different standards than we require for ourselves. What will you do when you grow up, child?"

She laughed. "Probably work in a shop," she said, self-deprecatingly. "Serve chips, eat chips."

"Humph. Hardly a proper occupation for one so wise, I should think," he replied with some scorn.

She sighed. "I'd quite like to travel," she confessed. "See things, do things."

He smiled. "I travel, but my companions usually hate it and generally find me disagreeable company, hum-humph."

"I can't imagine that," she said, honestly. "If I travelled with you, I'd love it and you very much."

He chuckled quietly and had a few more chips, his eyes wandering over her face and gazing at her as though he were reading something about her that she would never know. "I dare say you will," he said, his tone both amused and slightly baffled. "Perhaps when you're older and I'm young enough to keep up with you."

Rose laughed happily at this and patted his hand in gentle affection. "I hope things get better soon, sir."

"They will and they won't," he said. "It was delightful to meet you, Miss Tyler, simply delightful."

A young couple came into the shop then and approached them, his son and daughter perhaps, or the mentioned traveling companions. Rose looked up at them and stood. "Thanks for having chips with me," she said and, to the surprise of the others, she leaned over and kissed the old man on the cheek.

Mickey and Shireen turned up a few seconds later, so she didn't see when he left, or where he went. Still, she'd see him again, because he had said so and he was exactly the sort of man who kept his promises.


	8. Fifteen

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, even though getting that job is now my New Year's Resolution. _

_This chapter is dedicated to Fayth3, who's "Someone New" almost stopped this one from being written. Cheers to a brilliant writer!

* * *

_**Fifteen: The One She Fell For**

"What are you doing in here then?" Rose asked, curiously, of the man hiding behind the rack of coats she'd just been headed for.

He peeked out between two of them and beamed at her, his smile managing welcome and nervousness in the same expression. "Hiding," he said, abruptly all dignity. "And yourself?"

"Oh, I'm here to find you, I am," she said with a laugh as his expression changed again to trapped. "Three blue-haired old ladies with enormous hand-bags paid me twenty quid each to fetch you out."

He emerged from the coats, looking delightfully smug. "Well, that's all right then."

"You won't say that when they all decide to snog you at midnight, mate," she replied, grinning.

"Kiss me? At midnight?" he said, looking baffled, offended, and shocked all at once. "What a thing to suggest."

Rose giggled, utterly charmed by his easy manner and haughty grace. He was tall and blond and easy on the eyes, with slightly crooked teeth, dark blue eyes, and a friendly, boyish smile. He looked to be maybe 25 or 30 at the most, though his eyes told a different story when she stopped to look at them. "You look exhausted, are you all right?"

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. "That's a very long story. What did you say your name was again?"

"Rose," she said with a smile.

"I beg your pardon, Rose. No, I don't think you have a spare decade around to listen, have you?"

"Dunno. Never tried to listen for a decade before. Haven't even got two down yet, you know? 'Sides, my mum would tell you I can't listen for two seconds."

He chuckled lightly. "That's what my friend says about me. Or said." He sighed again and found himself a seat on the floor, against the wall but between two racks and still out of view of either the service window or the door of the coat room in which they were, apparently, hiding together.

"Don't want to spoil your pretty frock now," he said, and gallantly removed his coat, spreading it on the floor next to him. She wondered which pretty frock he was talking about, because her hired dress was yellow, and sort of went down hill from there. "What are you hiding from, anyway?"

She couldn't have answered that, since she didn't know what she was actually thinking that led her in here. He would look at her like she was mad if she confessed that she'd come with a vague sense of being needed, so she made something up. "Choir director. He wants me to sing a solo." It wasn't actually a lie - the school choir had performed earlier and she had managed to get out of her usual solo because the song was stupid and the crowd was ignoring them.

She lowered herself carefully to the floor and took a seat on his coat. They sat for a moment in heavy silence, and she took the time to look at him, really look at him. His face was so very beautiful and so very sad and his eyes were splendid but weary, magical but mourning. "What's wrong?" she offered. "You look as though you've lost your best friend."

"I suppose I do," he agreed, sadly. "And, come to think of it, I suppose I have."

She watched him and toyed with the stalk of celery in the lapel of the coat she was sitting on while he sat in silence for another minute. He was staring as if into a middle distance at a scene only he could see, then he reached out and patted her hand fondly. He looked like he was going to come off all grown-up and tell her not to worry about it, right up until she turned her hand and took his firmly in her small grip. Then, he turned his head, looked at her in some surprise, and shrugged. "You see, there was this girl," he said, as reluctantly as if the words had been dragged out by the proverbial wild horses.

"Was she pretty?"

"Oh, yes, very pretty." He nodded wistfully. "She was dark haired and quite the little tyrant, and I think I must have cared for her a bit more than I expected."

"Did she... die?" Rose asked, feeling an odd sense of deja vu from somewhere. Hadn't she had a conversation like this before? With him? That was impossible, she'd never met him before in her life.

"No, she's still alive, thank goodness, but I think... She hates me, now, that's all. It's very hard to come to terms with."

Rose, absolutely unable to comprehend how anyone could possibly hate such a man as this, blinked at him. "Are you sure?"

"Well, maybe not me, but my life, anyway, and that's enough to drive anyone away. She never wanted to be around me in the first place, but she sort of came to terms with it for awhile."

She thought very hard about this for a moment. "Maybe she didn't understand. Maybe she didn't know you loved her, or didn't know she loved you. Girls can be like that sometimes."

"Yes, I've noticed that. You seem to understand well enough, though. How is that?"

"Well, just, there's a boy..."

"Ah, and so we come to that," he said with a knowing, twinkling smile.

She grinned. "S'not like that. This is a different sort. I'm going out with him, some times, and I like him ok, but it's not like..." She sighed. "Look, it's teenagers and it's stupid, ok. He broke up with me because another boy said I was pretty."

"Ah," said her companion. "So you're dating an idiot. Interesting."

"Was dating an idiot. Doesn't matter though, it's just that that's how I know that people can mean one thing and say something else, that's all."

"I think you're just a very clever girl."

"You haven't seen my school report."

"No, but there are more ways to be clever than just test-taking."

"Thanks," she said, and looked up at him, studying his eyes, suspecting he would keep changing the subject if she let him, because he didn't want to talk about any of this, probably, and certainly not with a teenager. She decided to just tell him everything at one go and hope he understood.

"If you really think so, then listen. Sometimes people have to change things. Not because they don't love you or even the world around you. Sometimes it's because they don't love themselves anymore, or because they don't see a way through for both of you. You know, if they stay, they'll still be sort of gone, because they have to stop being who they are. Sometimes it's a mistake to go, and sometimes it's better to go, and most people don't know 'til they're gone which one it was. It's like... well, just, it's not always about the person they love, sometimes not even the life they live with the person they love. Sometimes its just that they realize they've done something wrong for them, and they have to make a selfish choice to protect both of you from it getting worse." She shook her head while he blinked at her in astonishment. "S'not like I know from experience, so it's fine, you should probably ignore me."

"No," he said, very firmly and set his free hand on her shoulder. "You may very well be absolutely right. Probably are, in fact, and I'm far too old not to take good advice whether it comes from a psychologist or a fortune cookie."

"Which am I then?" she asked, feeling completely stunned and quite a bit giddy. He was listening to her, a grown man, listening to her, believing her, understanding her. She knew it was ridiculous and impossible, but she suddenly wondered if he liked younger women. She'd be grown, soon enough, after all.

"Neither," he said, moving his hand from her shoulder to her hair and then back to his lap. "You're an under-appreciated child prodigy."

"What's a prodigy?"

"Someone who is brilliant before her time," he said, and just sat there, looking at her with a splendid, happy smile.

She was still holding his hand, not really noticing until he reached up to scratch his nose. He blinked at her small digits and smoothed his fingers over her pink fingernails curiously. She suddenly felt warm all over, and had to fight the urge to giggle nervously.

"Sorry," he said, his grin looking decidedly sheepish.

She grinned back. "I forgot."

"I'm rather afraid I did, too. Surprising, really, your hand is quite warm." His gaze dropped to her hands and she was surprised to feel butterflies starting somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, even as her head was feeling all floaty and strange.

"Oh," she said, and blushed. "Thanks."

"You don't like to sing?" he asked, back to changing the subject.

She sighed. "I love to sing. I'd sing all the time if I could. I sort of... hear music." She blushed even brighter and chewed her lip at making such an unexpected confession to this attractive stranger. The butterflies were getting worse. She didn't want him to think of her as a little girl, she wasn't a little girl, not any more, even if he was at least ten years older than her. Not so much older, not really.

He still looked at her, though, deeply and with a certain curious concern. "Yes, I rather expect you would. So why are you hiding then?"

"Well, let's see, I'm wearing a hideous dress, my hair's a disaster, no one's listened to us at any point all evening, and he wants to prop me up in front of all of them without even a pitch pipe and make me sing some little airy-fairy song about rainbows or some such."

He laughed at this, true joy lighting up his face and making him seem so heart-rendingly beautiful. Rose couldn't help grinning back, to know that she, even in her childish complaints, could bring him such happiness.

His smile was like sunshine, affectionate and mischievous and brilliant. "You're a completely precious girl, Rose, a treasure. Don't ever change."

"As long as I get to sing what I feel like singing," she said, teasing to try to extend the moment of humor, just to watch his eyes dance.

"And you don't feel like singing about rainbows?" he questioned kindly. His face had lost all trace of mischief, but the affection was still there, and the hurt was back in his eyes, old pain, and too deep for her to really touch.

Utter melancholy stole over her, sorrow that was part loneliness and part sympathy and part the mysterious familiarity of her nameless companion. "No. I feel like singing about rain and dancing with strangers, because you're looking for someone who isn't quite there yet, being too young, saving the best for last..." She stopped and stared over his shoulder at the coats, wondering if there was any way she could get through this without looking like a silly little girl. Not if she kept talking at random like this.

He nodded though and, again inciting that eerie sense of familiarity, took up her monologue with out missing a beat. "Letting go when you just want to hold on a little longer, holding on because you don't know what else to do, wishing you weren't the last one standing, chasing after a mirage on the horizon because it's the only thing you can see for miles."

"Living like your last breath is the same as your next heartbeat," she added. "And wondering, and watching the stars..."

"And waiting," they said, in perfect unison.

Their eyes met, and it was the strangest feeling, this earth-shaking, thunderclap feeling that hit Rose some place she'd never been hit before. It shook her to the very soles of her feet, to the very center of her being. She knew, suddenly and terribly, what it felt like, without even blinking, to fall in love with someone.

"She couldn't have known you at all," Rose said quietly, feeling tears trying to start in her eyes and blinking rapidly to stop them.

"I don't know," he said, looking quite shaken himself. "I always thought she did. There are other things, dangers, chaos. It's not safe, you see, my life, and it's hard for someone to stay with that sort of thing going on."

"I'd stay," she said firmly.

He looked down at her with a look that was quite serious and tender and seemed oddly uncertain. She chewed her lip nervously. What he must think of her, him sitting there so comfortable and exotic and sad and wonderful?

Instead, he drew a deep breath and beamed at her. "Yes," he said, "I suppose you would." He shook his head at her, clear signs of amazement on his face. "Are you going to sing?" he asked, and she sensed the question was almost entirely just to change the subject.

"S'too late, now," she said, and noticed his look of disappointment. She thought it was probably the standard look he used on naughty children, and wanted desperately to defend herself. Wasn't a very good cover story at all, she decided, and resolved to try not to lie to him again. "It's not like that. He wanted me to sing a solo and then go home, and I'm not leaving 'til after midnight. My mum's here somewhere, so I'm hardly alone, and it's a New Year's party, you know?"

"Oh. I didn't get to hear you." This time, the disappointment was unmistakable for anything but regret.

"I'll sing for you, if you like," she said, not sure why she said it, but perfectly willing to do absolutely anything she could think of for him.

"Yes, please," he said with that charming smile again.

She hummed a few bars to get warmed up and then, just because it felt right, sang through "As Time Goes By" while he looked at her, eyes wide and face alight with wonder.

"My goodness," he said. "I've never heard it done like that before, I don't think. 'Brandy of the dam' is I believe the expression used to describe blues. But I just... your voice... it's so..." He moved away from the wall, turned around to face her, completely.

"Familiar?" she offered, trying to explain the feeling she had been getting the entire time she'd been around him.

"Yes," he breathed. "Have we met? Do I know you? Because I can't imagine I'd ever have forgotten a girl like you... Oops."

She looked around to check there were no witnesses that had made him say "oops" and smiled at finding no one. "It's ok. I don't bite."

"That's not what's worrying me," he said. "I just..." An explosion of noise from the next room stopped him. "Oh dear."

"It's the countdown. Midnight, you know."

"Yes. And here you are, shut in a coat room, protecting me from being kissed by strangers instead of finding someone to kiss yourself." He smiled tenderly and fingered a lock of her hair, then tucked it behind her ear.

Rose watched him, carefully. He was going to go into shock, but it was ok, he was young and healthy and wouldn't have a heart attack, she was sure. "I wouldn't say that," she said, as the countdown went to five.

_Four_. She took his hand and held it tight.

_Three_. He gave her a nervous, wary look.

_Two_. Not a chance she'd get away with this.

_One_. Had to try it, anyway.

She leaned in and, closing her eyes to hide from the look of stunned disbelief she was sure he'd have on his face, closed the distance between them and kissed him, full on his inviting lips.

The second she made contact with him, a charge went through her, like something profound, something finally going right. Like finding the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle under the sofa cushion. More, like finally finding the right key after hunting all day and trying everything else on the lock that wouldn't budge.

He held absolutely still, almost as if he'd turned into a marble statue. But his lips were cool and soft and she lingered on them longer than she would have expected before that feeling of rightness washed over her. When she drew back, she kept her eyes scrunched tight closed so she didn't have to see how angry or unhappy he looked. Then she felt his hand, soft and cool and comforting, under her chin. Her eyes flew open without her wishing them to do and she was looking deep into eyes of a strangely glittering, burning blue, the exact shade she would always associate with despair.

"You're fifteen, Rose," he said softly. "It's not time yet. Some day, when you're older... then, I certainly hope... Well." He sighed and stood up, then helped her carefully to her feet. He kept her hand in his, held lightly between them. "You're a beautiful, wonderful, splendid girl, but you're still so very young. You have time, time like you wouldn't believe, all anxiously awaiting a chance just to be near you. I can't even begin to tell you what you've done for me, tonight, but I wouldn't wish what you're feeling on any one, and certainly not on a young woman with all you have to offer. Just stay glorious, Rose. Never change, not for anyone. And, though I shouldn't say this, because, like I said, I wouldn't wish me on anyone, I do hope we meet again soon."

Tears in her eyes and understanding, she was sure, exactly how he meant every word he spoke, she nodded. "I'd wish for you," she whispered. "You should believe that, even if you don't believe anything else about anything. You're better than anyone I've ever met, and you don't even know why."

He smiled tenderly. "I'm so glad I met you," he said.

"I love you," she told him, because she had to, before he left, before he walked away and disappeared without knowing what a wonderful, truly marvelous person he really was.

"Yes," he said quietly and lifted her hand to his lips. He kissed it lightly, then kissed her forehead and turned away. "My Rose," he whispered and opened the door. "I will miss you," he told her, and then he slipped outside the room and was gone.

Rose leaned against the wall and let tears of equal parts sorrow and joy roll down her face. Too young to be in love, she had to admit he was right about that. But not too young to fall.


	9. Seventeen

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, because my New Years' Resolution is not working so far._

* * *

**Seventeen: The One She Wanted**

Jimmy Stone was a no good, useless, sorry, cheating... She hated him and was never going to talk to him again for as long as she lived.

Well, that probably wasn't true, because he owed her money, but that was what she had told him when she found him in bed with that tramp Renee from the pub. God, the cow must be twice his age!

Right now, having gone to a part of London she never frequented, she found a different pub that didn't look carefully at her ID and was seriously contemplating getting thoroughly pissed. She had cash from her last pay check and, what the hell, why not. If he could blow his money on drinks and a new speaker, then she could blow hers on drinks and shoes. Her mum would feed her, she wouldn't go hungry, and right now, who cared what happened to him.

As she sat there with the one drink she'd ordered, she rather decided that she might not want to go this way after all. Two blokes had hit on her while she tried to acquire a taste for orange juice and vodka, but she'd seen the stupid white line on the last one's hand and the first one reminded her of Jimmy. She didn't want any male of her entire species to touch her right now. Fighting tears of sorrow and fury, she pushed the drink away and thought she might just go get her things and move home. She could have it out with Jimmy while she was there.

"Bad night?" said a cultured, sober voice.

She looked over at the bloke at the next table. He was a large, barrel-chested man with a riotous mop of golden curls and the strangest coat she had ever seen in her entire life draped over the chair behind him. "Bad life," she replied, glumly. "Lost my job, my bloke, and my flat all in the same day, and tomorrow's gonna be the worst birthday I've ever had, 'cuz I'll have to go crawling back to my mum."

"Sounds complicated," he agreed and stood up, bringing his drink (something pale yellow with lots of ice) and his bizarre jacket and coming to sit down across from her. "You have my sympathies, for what it's worth, which isn't much, I'll admit."

She considered him closely. He had a roundish face, strangely delicate cheek bones, and beady golden eyes that pierced her with their fire. His clothes were entirely too lurid to be allowed, even if they were expertly tailored to fit him perfectly. There was something positively dangerous about the tilt of his head and the set of his broad shoulders. Maybe she'd gotten enough alcohol in her after all, because he wasn't exactly attractive - maybe with a haircut? - and yet he sat there, a total stranger, and her head was writing him in with a halo as an avenging angel.

"You'd look good with a flaming sword," she told him.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked her sharply. His eyes studied her, his face seeming distant and yet concerned, as if he actually cared about what happened to her.

"Not nearly enough, yet," she said, checking his finger and finding no trace of ring or ring mark. "I'll let you know when you look like Brad Pitt, shall I?" She lifted her drink, toasted him ironically, and went to drain it. The second the vodka hit her lips, she found she couldn't stand it at all. Gagging over what little she had taken in, she swallowed sharply and made a face.

He reached over and took the drink from her, draining it quietly himself. "This is disgusting!" he announced. "What's that bartender doing?" He stood up as if to go scold the man for doing such a poor job on her drink. She sighed, shook her head, and put her hand over his to stop him.

"Doesn't matter," she said. "I shouldn't have it anyway."

He nodded and deflated, and sat back down, morose once more. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking?"

"No," she said, indignantly, "I'm an adult, thank you." Or will be in twenty minutes, she didn't add. She watched him watch her and realized that the defeat in his eyes went quite a bit further than just not being allowed to annoy the bartender. "What happened to you?" she asked him, quietly.

He rolled his eyes. "Well, let's see. My friend just got married to a barbarian savage. I had to go to the wedding, and got a mail barge worth of tearful goodbye missives for her family in exchange. Oh, and I'm somehow going to end up in Pease Pottage and meet a personal trainer, which I'd rather not, as honestly, what can one do with that much carrot juice? I'd've expected it to have happened by now, though, only it hasn't so I thought I'd come here and watch the world go by for a moment, sort of catch my breath before the deluge. I don't think there's anything wrong with my waist line, do you?"

She looked at him, considering. "No, I doubt it." His rant had made his face so very interesting, and his eyes were sparking like he was quite looking forward to the fight. He seemed to be one of the most fascinating people she had met in some time, even if he was nearly twice her age.

Twice her age...

"Wanna shag?" she asked suddenly, flashing him a winning smile and drawing a deep breath to emphasize her splendid young curves.

He stared at her, mouth hanging wide open, enormous hands clenched quite tightly on the glass with his yellow drink. "I beg your miniscule and insignificant pardon?" he sputtered out, after gaping at her like a startled llama for some time.

Under normal circumstances, she would have laughed it off, every bit of it, smiled merrily, stood, and kissed him breathless, then wandered off leaving him to wonder what he'd missed. Normal circumstances, however, had deserted her utterly. Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe she was only cute and hardly anybody's idea of fun between the sheets. It didn't matter, though, because whether Jimmy was right or not, this brilliant golden bear in front of her agreed with him. The tears, hot, furious, lonely, desperate tears, had caught up to her at last. They began to pour from her eyes, no matter how she pleaded with them to spare her some dignity and stop.

"Sorry," she muttered, and stumbled to her feet to get away.

A large hand closed on her upper arm. She rounded on him, determined to take her rage out on him if he was going to take a stupid risk like this after crushing her already damaged emotions. Trembling with fury, she raised her other hand to strike.

He caught it as if it were nothing to him and looked down at her, his eyes burning into her with such intensity, such raw emotion and power that she suddenly wondered if she hadn't just invited a hurricane into her bed. In that instant, the image of him as a fellow lonely drinker had burned away. The one she'd had originally, a vengeful angel with a flaming sword, that one more suited him. What sort of titan had she just blithely propositioned?

Then, the look was gone, and he was a curious man again, looking in distant shock at a tearful girl who had just said something beyond impertinent. "Let's get you out of here," he said quietly, lowering his hand to hers. "You obviously aren't feeling well."

"Right," she agreed, because she really didn't care anymore. "Just don't send me home. I dunno where that is."

He looked pained as he nodded at her and led her outside. At the corner, he hailed a cab, spoke briefly to the driver and, to her wondering surprise, got in with her. "I don't think you should be out on your own," he said quietly. "A lovely lady like yourself can get into trouble doing what you just did."

She looked up at him and scooted closer across the seat. The concern in his face was quite evident, almost as if she mattered to him, as if she was a valuable person and not some cheap London chav who'd ruined her life before it even got started. In gratitude and a sudden surge of affection for him, she smiled into his eyes, her tears forgotten, and took his hand. It was large and strong and made her feel quite small. Her hand fit his perfectly and she felt completely, utterly safe, for the first time in the entire six months since she'd dropped out of school and moved in with Jimmy. "You have the most beautiful eyes," she whispered.

"Thank you," he replied dryly. "Are you sure you're not intoxicated?"

"No, I'm not, honestly. You had mine and yours, remember?"

Then, she tilted her head and, before he could get away from her, kissed him full on his broad, sensuous lips. He gasped and tried to pull back, but she wasn't giving in that easy. The instant his mouth opened, she thrust her tongue inside, desperate to explore him. In the back of her mind, she realized that the yellow drink had been a banana daiquiri, but the rest of his taste was exotic and unique and somehow positively familiar. She could feel his hands in hers, clenching and unclenching. She stroked his tongue, invitingly, and all at once, with a groan that sounded both angry and defeated, he was kissing her back.

His mouth moved over hers, his tongue thrust suggestively against hers. It was the most intense kiss she could ever remember having experienced, this golden haired stranger making love to her mouth. It was as if he had been kissing her all her life, as if he knew exactly how to touch her to send hot waves of burning desire coursing all through her body.

When he pulled away, suddenly and thoroughly, she felt sated and starved at the same time, and also utterly abandoned. She looked into his stormy eyes, nibbling nervously at her bruised lip. He looked away for a moment, then back at her, eyes hungry and furious.

"Don't do that," he demanded harshly.

"What?" she said, and chewed at her lip again.

The cab stopped, but neither of them noticed. "That," he said, and gestured at her lips.

The cabbie cleared his throat and they got out. Her escort thrust a few bills into the man's hand and then caught her arm. "Stop that, you ridiculous child," he ordered quietly.

Big Ben was striking midnight and she grinned in satisfaction. She was eighteen years old, now, and for the first time, it made her happy. "I'm an adult," she informed him, throwing her shoulders back, admiring him in the street light. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I'm deciding, right now, that I want you."

He looked up at the hotel before them, the back at her, and sighed. "No you don't," he promised her. "Just the idea of someone who wants you, too. Anyone, doesn't matter." He tilted his head and actually smiled at her, looking kind and haughty and superior, as though he were imparting a great secret. She fought the urge to giggle. He was probably insanely arrogant in real life, but that didn't stop him from being flustered and lovely when he smiled. "It didn't have to be me in that pub," he added as he took her hand and led her inside.

Their hands fit perfectly together. All at once, out of some emotion so strong, she couldn't even begin to explain it or its origin, she had a blinding flash of insight. It did have to be him in that bar. It didn't matter who else had showed up, if it hadn't been him, she would have gone crawling back to Jimmy before the night was over and begged him not to leave her. In the elevator, while he watched her warily, she told him so. "I need you. Just you, specifically you. Not anyone else, not anyone at all. If it hadn't been you, I'd've just made the biggest mistake of my life."

Then, she stood on her toes and kissed him again, slowly this time, savoring the feel of his lips under hers. His hands threaded through her hair, trembling as if he couldn't stop himself. His lips moved softly over hers, parted slightly, then nibbled at her bottom lip.

The elevator dinged and they got out. He led her down the hall, her hand still tucked inside his, as he rifled through his pockets and finally produced a small key card. She stopped him before he opened the door, because something told her, somehow, that he had to make up his mind before he went inside. "I want you," she told him, seriously, staring with a firm, clear, determined gaze into his golden eyes. She had to make it clear that there was no one else in the Universe who would do for her right now.

He looked down at her, his face pale and regal and set and stern. Abruptly it crumpled and he sighed, looking down at their joined hands. "May whatever god there are forgive me," he said softly. "I want you, too." He lowered his head to kiss her softly, and she grinned in absolute triumph against his mouth.

As he kissed her, he lifted her into his arms, as easily as if she were a rag doll and as carefully as if she were blown glass, and carried her inside. He kissed her into a stupor this time, his tongue thrusting deeply and suggestively inside her mouth, a sex act unto itself. She hardly even noticed it when he set her neatly into a chair near the door.

"Is this a mistake?" he asked her, as he dropped his jacket on the sofa and turned toward the wall. He did something to lower the lights in the room and then turned to her with the most amazing expression on his face. It was desire and tenderness and confusion and longing, and maybe a million other emotions, all of them earth shaking and all of them leveled at her.

"I'm not asking for the world," she said softly, stepping toward him slowly, as though she was approaching a wounded animal. Something in the way his eyes watched her suggested she might very well be doing. "I'm not asking for anything at all, really. Just you and me and tonight. I don't understand, you know that, but I just..." She reached out carefully to touch his stark white sleeve with the question marked cuffs (where had she seen that monogram before?) and almost expected him to jump away from her.

Instead he enfolded her in his large arms and caught her lips, kissing her silent. "Someday you'll have the world, and everything beyond it besides," he said, when he raised his head, his fingers caressing her cheek tenderly. He lowered his head to her neck then, and whispered softly against her skin, delivering tiny, chill kisses to punctuate every word. "When you're older, when your life is your own. For now, I can give you tonight, make it last, maybe even make it worth it." He stepped back from her now, very serious, both in the firm set of his body and the expression on his face. "Is that what you really want?"

Last chance to back out, she heard, in between the lines. Also, his unvoiced advice to run away now, because she really, really shouldn't be here, not her, not with him. And maybe... did he have the impression that _he_ wasn't good enough? For _her_?

"It's all I want. You and time. You can make everything better." That sounded familiar.

It was apparently exactly the right thing to say, because he turned to her now, and his golden eyes caught dark fire, alive and gorgeous and full of lust and passion, and maybe... just the tiniest, inexplicable flicker of... was that?

It looked, as he reached for her, calm and radiant and beaming, as if he might just love her.

* * *

It was a glorious experience, sharing touches, sharing bodies, never seeming to end. It blotted out all the sick feeling she had felt growing every day for six months now. He was giving and kind and careful of her, always asking, always checking with her before he did anything until he knew she liked it. His tentative, perfect lovemaking drove her passion ever higher. It felt like he had learned to touch a woman with her body in mind, because everything he did felt exactly right. 

It wasn't all seriousness and shadows, either. They'd shared quite a bit of a laugh when she informed him that his bumblebee colored trousers only looked good on the floor, and he'd countered that he picked the entire ensemble out years ago explicitly because he knew she'd hate it. They'd played together quite a bit in the shower at some point, making a right mess of the bathroom and grinning like kids the entire time while they chucked water at each other, as naked and innocent as a couple of sprites in a forest pool. They chased each other around the room and fell laughing into each other's arms, only to fall back into passion and the shared joy of trying to wring the last possible ounce of pleasure from their bodies.

She couldn't even remember how long it had been, couldn't remember her own name, dazed and dreamy and still filled with anxious longing for him when, hours, or days later, they joined together for the last time. The dawn was coming up outside the window and he was so beautiful and he had made her so beautiful and everything, everything in the whole world was exactly as it should be. She whispered his name like a song or a prayer. His whole body stilled and then he smiled up at her, a glorious, agonizingly lovely smile that made her heart ache more than she knew her body would when she woke. "Rose," he replied softly, reminding her who she was and that she was right where she belonged. Then, one more time, he took her with him, out of the world.

* * *

When she woke, hours later, her memory of the night was quite blurry. There was a hot cup of tea on the night stand beside her, and what smelled like breakfast on the table at the end of the bed. There was a pale pink rose in the bud vase on the tray. Her body indeed ached, but the feeling was glorious, completely sated and transcended. 

Other than that, and a brief note that she could stay as long as she needed, she was completely alone.

She stayed two days, though she knew he wouldn't return to that place. She would see him again, take his hand again, love him again. When she was older, as he said, when her life was her own.

At the end of two days, she checked out of the room, stopped by Jimmy's place when she knew he couldn't possibly be there, collected her things, and went home to her mother.


	10. Eighteen

_The stories that follow are paired. The opposite story is called "How He Loved Her" and can be found on my Author page. Both stories follow Rose's chronology and will be updated simultaneously. I also still have to disclaim, because, while I believe in miracles, one hasn't happened yet._

* * *

**Eighteen: The One She Loved**

Rose leaned out over the high balcony, looking out at the city below. London looked particularly beautiful like this, darkness caressed in chains of light, the old and the new nestled together in dreamy contentment. She smiled and inhaled deeply, wondering how she had come to wax so poetic for no apparent reason.

Of course, Lord Byron's double was leaning on the guardrail next to her, so that might explain it. She admired his long, delicate form as he watched the city below with haunted eyes, and thought she finally understood the meaning of the words 'tragic beauty'. He had the bearing of a poet about him, dressed in Victorian clothes, with night darkened hair that hung long against his bowed shoulders. She wondered if his face was so fine, but didn't dare look closer, because he had the aura of one who expected very much to be left alone.

"Such a lovely place," he whispered aloud. "I believe I shall miss it."

"Are you going away?" she ventured, because it seemed he might want - or even need - company after all.

"Oh yes," he replied in a dreamy voice. "Ever so far away." His head tilted toward the stars, scarcely visible in the moonlight and the haze from the streets below them.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm so sorry."

"Yes," he said, and he looked at her with an expression that nearly stopped her breath. It looked like his heart was breaking, right there in his green eyes, right in front of her. "And yet, one hopes that they will be a great deal sorrier."

He looked at her now, she could feel it more than see it. His eyes had come back to the world and lit on her, and their consideration weighed heavy on her small, grubby soul. "I know you," he whispered.

"I don't think so," she replied, doubtfully. There was something about him that tugged at memories and tossed hazy pictures into her mind. "I think I'd remember you."

He smiled faintly, and even his smile was tragic. "And yet time contrives to make even the most precious of memories into vague dreams."

She nodded, because that was true. "I'm Rose Tyler," she said, and offered him her hand.

He looked at the hand, seemingly baffled for an instant, then his eyes lit up, and he took it in his, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it like she was a right proper lady or something. "It's good to meet you, Lady Rose Tyler."

There was something so achingly familiar about this that her heart clenched in her chest and she had to bite her lip to stifle the sudden desire to weep. "Yes," she said, instead.

He turned her hand in his, but didn't let it go. His long, delicate fingers moved softly, this way and that, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, like the right key in the right lock, they fit exactly perfectly. Again, her heart hammered against her rib cage and her breath caught in her throat as he held her hand like the only thing anchoring him to the world, and looked out at the night with burning eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked when she could find her breath again.

"War," he said. "Such terrible destruction. I had a few loose ends to tie up, one last night in the world, and then I must go."

It didn't even occur to her to disbelieve him, or to wonder where the war was or anything. It did, however, occur to her to wonder how much danger was coming here. "Is it..."

He patted her hand with his free one, comfortingly. "Oh no, everything will be fine here, that's been seen to." He gazed over the city again, a benevolent lord surveying his people. "You're all safe." His eyes were full of deep, contented, despairing love, like a king admiring his faithless young bride. "Your precious little blue green paradise." His words, too, were a lover's caress, all full of admiration and longing and an abiding love so unconditional it was painful just to hear him.

"Thank you," she said, because it felt like the right thing to say.

Now, he turned those eyes on her again, and the love was still in them, not distant any more, but very personal, very intimate, as if he saw what was inside her and found her tiny little life more precious than diamonds. Something her gran used to say when she was young wandered into her mind. "Many thereby have entertained angels unaware." She couldn't have denied how appropriate it seemed, not even if she tried for the rest of her life.

"I've done all I can. You'll have to look after it for yourselves from now on."

It sounded like a torch being passed. She could scarcely comprehend it, but it was not passing to her, not necessarily. That was a good thing, because she wouldn't have known what to do with it, even if she could have supported the weight of it.

Mind, the slender shoulders of the man at her side had borne it thus far. He blinked at her, like a child waking from sleep, and smiled with tender concern into her eyes, then looked around, as if for something else to talk about. "The music's quite good," he ventured.

She beamed. He was right, they were, even if they were just some unknown cover band playing older music from all over the world. "Just some band," she said.

"What're they called?" he asked.

"Hum?" she said, listening intently to the strains of a smoky saxophone playing the intro to something that sounded vaguely familiar. "Oh. Bad Wolf Rising, I think," she said. "Probably a take off on Creedence, they were playing that a few minutes ago."

He nodded and seemed ready to go back to his solitary contemplation, but he didn't let go of her hand, almost as if he'd forgotten he held it.

"Dance with me?" she asked. He was so alone and had such a terrible task ahead of him. He should have some comfort before he went, even if it was only a few moments to hold a not-so-strange stranger's hand.

"I don't dance," he said with an oddly firm conviction, not as if it was his policy, but as if it was the natural order of things. The moon wasn't made of green cheese, the sun didn't rise in the west, water didn't flow up hill, and he didn't dance. All as it was supposed to be.

The eerie sense of deja vu stole over her, and she smiled her best smile at him, encouraging. "Yeah, you do," she replied softly. With the most delicate care, she placed herself correctly in relation to him, then guided his hands into the correct positions. His eyes watched her, strange and wonderful, and she knew she was treading a very thin line here. It felt oddly necessary, and yet had to be done just right so as not to chase him away.

For a man who didn't dance, he did it very elegantly. He let her lead for a few steps and then, all at once, as if remembering something long forgotten, he took over and swept her into a perfect waltz that put them on an entirely different plane of reality from the world around them. Who would have ever thought of this? Ever? Still, she felt perfectly comfortable, like coming home from a long, long trip away.

"Tell me about yourself," he said after awhile.

"Oh," she replied, blushing, "but there's nothing to tell. I'm nobody in particular, just simple Rose Tyler."

He shook his head, and his eyes smiled. "There was never anything simple about you, Rose," he replied.

She smiled tenderly, touched by his kindness. "I don't have any A-levels and I'm not much good at maths or chemistry. I'm not exactly clever enough to wander back into school now, so I expect simple's all I'll have to look forward to."

"There are more ways to be clever than just test-taking," he said, and again, his expression was achingly familiar, as were his words. She had kissed the last lips that said them, she thought. And perhaps she would kiss these as well.

"Are you going to stop the war?" she asked, intent on turning the subject away from her and the endless string of guilt she felt for stupidly leaving school over a boy who had very nearly wrecked her life. Still, she was careful to tread lightly on this subject and hoped for his sake it was possible.

"I am now," he said, with a note of dark finality. "It's my job."

The conversation, not the dancing, was what put the giddy sensation in her head, the feeling of the Earth spinning toward morning with the usual blind disregard for her wishes otherwise. This night was magic and he was brilliant and as long as the moon hung in the sky, it was just the two of them, together. Where they belonged, perhaps, or would have done, before the real darkness stepped between them.

"I hope things go well for you," she ventured.

He smiled and, probably because the song had changed to something soft and melancholy, drew her closer. He was apparently very sure in his assertion that he knew her, because he kissed the top of her head and guided it to rest against his chest. "They will and they won't," he replied at last, sounding quite bitter.

The rhythm beneath her cheek wasn't right, but it was, too, if that made any sense to anyone, even her. It wasn't Mickey, or Jimmy, but it was him, and he always sounded like this. He always smelled like this, too, she remembered hazily.

"I like this song," she said. "Wouldn't have thought they'd play it, it's very very old."

"I used to sing this song," he mused.

She looked up at him, startled. The familiarity was jerking hard at her mind now, trying desperately to tell her something.

"It's alright," he said, watching her eyes. "You can't always believe everything you see, Rose Tyler. Some things are like..."

That tugged something right out into the open, and she found herself finishing his sentence. "Magic," she said. "They're there, but you can't see them..."

"Unless you know what to look for," they finished together.

She stopped dancing, stepped back, and just stared up at him, wide-eyed and wondering. Something was happening in her mind, in her memory, scattered bits and pieces all coming together from all over her life. Like a shattering mirror wound backward in a video recorder, diverse images started to piece themselves together into...

"If you could have anything in the world," he whispered, a desperate, heart-broken hope in his eyes, "what would you want?"

...him. The pieces were there now, most of them, whisper fine threads of the reality of her life, all woven together to create this single moment, to stand her before this single image, and give her one word. She waited for it, but it wouldn't come, so she answered his question with almost certain knowledge of what it meant. "If it was my last night in the world? The only thing I'd want is to spend it with someone who loves me."

He bowed his head, the very picture of shame. "May whatever gods there are forgive me."

And there it was, all of it. The mirror coalesced, only it wasn't a mirror, it was a picture, a picture with a label, comprised of many images, but forming a single, ever shifting face, always with the same endless fire behind the changing, changeless eyes. "Doctor?" she breathed.

He looked up at her, staggered, and then, as if this was the last drink of water in a desert that went on forever, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her.

The band played on, the moon shone down, London meandered, and still he laid his kiss upon her lips, and still the Earth turned beneath her feet. She could have held on like this for the rest of her life, the twinned rhythm throbbing against her chest and the feel of his body aligned with hers the only sensations she would ever again need.

When at last he separated from her, the whole world had changed. He held her hand still, and the band was just coming back from a break. He looked, nervously, at peace. "I can never figure out which part to call the first time we met."

She smiled and nodded and burrowed into the circle of his arms, understanding something now that she shouldn't have done, but the memories were blue and bright and all there, right now. "Where's home for you?" she asked softly.

He smiled. "This is home, right here," he said. "With you. Where ever you are. But if you mean Gallifrey..."

She giggled. "That's in Denmark, isn't it?" she said, teasing.

"You're only off by about 250 million light years," he replied, a faint sheen of tears shining in his bright eyes. Turning her in his embrace, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, one hand on her shoulder, the other around her waist. Contented with the memory, she leaned against his, inhaling his time and mystery fragrance. He pointed up at the stars above them, and a little off from Orion's belt. "That way."

She grinned and turned around to plant a tiny kiss on his mouth. "'Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning,'" she quoted.

"Yes." His face took on a pained expression and he searched around, as if for a disturbance. The band was playing Bob Seger, and he looked at them with wounded eyes as they belted out the lyrics.

_"I've seen you smiling in the summer sun, I've seen your long hair flying when you run..." _

"I'm so sorry, Rose."

"What for?"

"I shouldn't have... you have peace and quiet in your life, because you don't have this and..."

"You always told me, always. When..."

"When you're older, yes."

The band's timing was impossibly precise. _"It's written down somewhere, it's got to be. Someday, lady, you'll accomp'ny me..."_

"I'm older now, Doctor," she said. "Take me with you, now."

His face turned abruptly furious, his elegant beauty suddenly majestic and terrible. He backed away and his eyes blazed, dangerous and dark and glorious and she wondered what nightmare horrors had happened to him to put such divine power there where once only joy burned. "No! Don't ask me for that!"

He seemed to collapse under the weight of his own anger, leaning on the guard rail, not looking at her, not touching her. "I'd give you anything, Rose, you know that. You want the moon on a chain, it's yours. You want a star in a box to light up your room, you can have it. But not that. I will not take you into this, I can't." His wide green eyes were clouded with tears and pain and a deep seated rage that all the tears of all the sorrows in all of time could not put out.

She nodded through sudden tears. "No," she said. "No, of course not. I don't want anything, Doctor, I never have." She smiled softly. "Except to love you."

"I don't want to break any more promises," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "And certainly not this one." Then he looked up at her and stopped. "Oh," he said.

She smiled at that. He'd always done that - let his speech get ahead of his hearing. "You come with me," she said softly, and took his hand to lead him away, away from the band and the balcony, away from the stars that were his home. She led him instead to her room and her bed, and for a long time, she did nothing more than hold him while he wept in helpless grief that everything he had worked for all his life had come to this.

"I made a single wish," he said some time later. "I wanted one more chance to tell you I love you, even if I can never remember who you are. A small gift, their idea of payment for services rendered." He didn't sound at all bitter, just this once. He'd resigned himself, it seemed. Or he was grateful. She could understand that. "They're giving me that. Just tonight, no longer."

"Not a good time to ask all the questions, then, is it."

"No." He sighed. "Here, at the end, I didn't want to put this kind of burden on you. But I couldn't..."

"Doctor," she whispered, putting a hand over his perfect lips. "Apologize to people who regret. Not to me, never to me."

There was so much more that could have been said, so many things they could talk about. But if there would be no memories for them, anyway, then there was no need to tell him with words. Such a long time ago, it seemed, they had discussed this, all of it. There were ways and ways to say what they needed to say between them, but the human way was one she knew he couldn't misunderstand. Time had changed him, would always change him, and she would, could, did love him still.

* * *

When Rose Tyler was eighteen years old, she spent the night in the arms of a poet. In the morning, the poet would be gone, and a soldier would wake beside her while the moon set out the window. Even in a velvet coat with long, dark curls, she would see the wounded blue-eyed soldier in his hardened, stormy green eyes. She would place her sweet benediction upon his lips and he would march away to a war he spent his whole life trying to prevent. She would forget everything she ever knew about him, which was a gift so great she could never repay it, and a curse so harsh no one else could ever endure it.

But while the moon hung cold in the Earthly, mortal sky, she would love him with everything there had ever been in her soft and precious human heart. And when she let her Doctor go, she would let go a piece of herself as well, something she would never know she missed, until one day, in a basement, surrounded by doom, it found her.


End file.
